


In Another Reality

by whatthehellfairy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:26:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthehellfairy/pseuds/whatthehellfairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another reality, maybe. -Sherlock/Irene, Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Another Reality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lilting Lullaby](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lilting+Lullaby).



_Let's have dinner._

The words run through Sherlock's brain over and over again, going around in circles, leaving a tingling feeling behind. His breathing is fairly even, with his exhales occasionally too loud or indistinct. There is a faint scent of smoke in the air; it escapes from his lips in tiny puffs and mingles in the air until it disappears altogether. The consulting detective has shut out the noises from the outside world, including the sound of the telly downstairs.

When his eyes drift close, he dreams.

He rarely dreams - in fact, he hasn't dreamt in years. He has never been able to dream however he tries - he searches it up online, attempts all methods, but nothing works. He has already given up; he's even stopped trying to sleep for more than three to four hours a day.

This time it's different. For once, his mind manages to run away from reality.

Irene Adler has sneakily snuck into his thoughts. His vivid imagination swirls, and suddenly he's sitting in his chair in 221B Baker Street, his violin resting on his left shoulder, his bow in his right hand. The violin string vibrates, slightly quivering, but he can barely hear the music. The dominatrix sits in the chair opposite him, watching him purposefully.

This is the game that they play. Neither of them have to say a word for them to know what the other is thinking. They spin around and around and they're both following each other so closely on this tightrope of theirs that neither of them fall. He wonders if this will ever end, if she will ever surrender or lose her balance.

He sets the violin down on the table to his right, not acknowledging her presence, his eyes shifty. Her stare is intense and he can feel it on him.

Oh, he loves this, Sherlock does. The parts of her, barriers he can't break through, like unsolved mysteries. Her electric gaze, looking past his face to almost see him, the parts of him no other female's reached before. What they have is on a different level, it's new, it's unique. It's a fresh experience and it sends waves of pleasure rushing through his veins.

She gets up and leans in towards him, her light breath brushing his cheek, her lips full with the secrets she doesn't speak. Her dilated pupils search all the way into his soul, and apparently she likes what she finds there, because she grins at him cheekily. Her fingertips dance across his skin; ice-cold touch blazing his wrist, his arm, his -

Sherlock jerks awake, gasping. His hair is unusually tousled, his limbs tangled in the sheets, and for a moment he thinks he's still in a dream because there she is, Irene Adler, sitting beside him on his bed, smirking with eyes that are all too knowing and much too seductive to be safe.

"You're supposed to be dead," he blurts out wildly, and immediately regrets it. He curses in his head, and he can sense her practically reading his thoughts.

"I died twice and I'm still alive." She reaches out to hold his hand. His skin tingles where she touches him.

"You shouldn't be here," he says. "You wouldn't want to be caught after all the effort you took to stay alive, would you?"

An insolent smile is all he gets in reply. He studies her closely before speaking again.

"You don't particularly care, not anymore," he murmurs. "Why not?"

"It doesn't matter to me," she whispers. "What's the fun in playing safe all the time? What's life -" her fingers trailing up his wrist to his arm "- without a little risk?"

He doesn't appear in the least bit affected by her attempts at flirting. He remains impassive but she is still unfazed. It's funny how she tried to break through his defences but ends up being broken instead.

"Let's have dinner," she whispers. Her voice would have been irresistible to most, but he is Sherlock Holmes, so it is wasted on him. His face remains an unreadable mask.

"You should really go."

"Are you forcing me to leave?"

"Your words, not mine."

She sighed mockingly, and if he didn't know better he'd think she were defeated. But there is a familiar twinkle in her eyes, the same one she had given him when he figured out the passcode to her safe. She hasn't given up yet.

She makes a move to leave, but pauses halfway, hesitant, then finally turns back to him. He fixes his eyes on her, deductions going on in his head rapidly. Her pupils are dilated, like before, her breathing rate elevated.

_Don't come closer. Don't come closer. Don't come cl-_

Then she presses a kiss to his cheek and everything goes blank and he doesn't know and he can't think -

He opens his eyes. She's not there. The air is silent and empty.

Her phone rests on his bedside table, where he left it, until he eventually fell asleep reading through the texts.

_Messages - Sent_

_Let's have dinner._

He laughs. It sounds bitter, even to himself.

He knows he won't see her again.


End file.
